It’s fair to say that my mother dying when I was fourteen was a bit of a blow. Some people, I imagine, fear becoming their mother, but there’s no chance of that for me, we were so different, she was only 6 years older than I am now when she died, and I, for one, am very much hoping that the whole death thing is a bit less on the cards for me than it was for her. My fear isn’t becoming like my mother as a person, my fear is running out of time.

Time and my mother play a part in this week’s simple recipe of scrambled eggs. My mother was an excellent cook so it seems a shame that I never spent enough time in the kitchen with her, and that all she taught me from her enormous repertoire was scrambled eggs on toast and for some reason venison stew.

Mother used a wooden trident when she scrambled, and a large brass timer. I have the timer still but make do with a wooden spoon. I don’t use the timer either of late, as I have realised that Frankie Lymon and the teenager’s Why do fools fall in love at 2 minutes and 20 seconds is exactly the required length for scrambling so I put it on and scramble away until they stop warbling on.

So, get the toast in the toaster and the oil up to temperature in a pan with sides, crack the egg, drop it in from as high as you can, quick squish with the spoon, heat down, get the record on, another stir, get the butter ready for when the toast pops, butter the toast and when the music stops scoop the egg onto the toast.

Quite the simplest thing you can cook. Just don’t do as I did and find yourself warbling along to the record, using the spoon as a microphone and forget to stir. Claude burst in screaming as the smoke filled the hallway and quite ruined the potentially award winning performance.


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